


Avon and the Widow

by SusanMM



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post Gauda Prime, Revolution, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-23 10:28:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SusanMM/pseuds/SusanMM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On Gauda Prime, Blake is lying dead at Avon's feet ... or is he?  Can the reluctant revolutionaries escape Servalan's clutches?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prisoners of the Federation

**Standard Fanfic Disclaimer** that wouldn't last ten seconds in a court of law:  these aren't my characters; they were created by the late Terry Nation and either belong to his heirs or to the BBC.  I'm just borrowing them, and will return them unharmed (or suitably bandaged).  This was one of my early stories, previously published in  Gambit #1, from Peacock Press in 1987, slightly edited in 2013.

 

**Avon and the Widow**

_Blake's Seven_

by Susan M. M.

 

**~*~*~**

                Kerr Avon laughed long and loud.  Blake would have appreciated the delicious irony -- Roj Blake avenged by Federation troops.  It was Blake's own fault he was dead.  He kept coming and coming when Avon had told him to stop.  Why hadn't he listened?  Avon had had no choice but to shoot Blake.  But now Avon must die, too.  Fratricide must be punished.  An eye for an eye, the forbidden books said.  Die ... Avon must die.  He knew that, accepted it, welcomed it.  But a lifetime of obstinacy was a hard habit to break.  Stubbornly, perversely, he shot the Federation troops and waited for them to shoot him.                        

                "Do let us in on the joke, Avon," a dulcet contralto invited.

                "Servalan."  Avalon looked up.  As always, the elegant ebony evening gown looked insanely incongruous on a battlefield.   Avon raised his gun and smiled.  "This is for Blake."

                A blast of pain and heat seared Avon's left hip.  He collapsed over Blake's corpse.  Avon lay there a few seconds, gasping for breath and attempting -- futilely -- to stifle the moans.  Struggling to his hands and knees, Avon turned his head to see what Federation soldier had been impertinent enough to shoot him.

                "Soolin?" Avon wondered.  He spoke in a whisper, afraid he would be unable to hold back the screams if he used a louder voice.

                "I paid for him whole, Soolin," 'Commissioner Sleer' scolded.

                "He'll live," Soolin replied nonchalantly.  "Blake's dead, and Tarrant's dying, but the rest will survive."

                "A pity you won't."  Servalan took a gun out of her muff and shot Soolin.  "There's a quarter million credits of the taxpayers' money saved."  She smiled down at the blonde corpse.

                "What do you want done with the prisoners, ma'am?" asked a lieutenant.  He was barely older than Dayna, hardly old enough to shave.

                "Bind them and have their wounds attended to," Servalan ordered.  "I'll want to interrogate them personally."

                "Yes, Commissioner."  The young lieutenant saluted.

                The wounded rebels offered no resistance as they were manacled.  The lieutenant ordered gurneys for Tarrant and Deva.  As the prisoners were limping and/or being carried out, a squad of troopers attempted to enter the crowded doorway, dragging a bruised woman with them. 

                "What is the meaning of this -- this traffic jam?" Servalan demanded.

                "By your leave, Commissioner, we've captured a very important prisoner," the sergeant announced pompously.  "Roj Blake's wife."

                "His widow, you mean."  Servalan laughed with pure glee as the soldiers pulled the struggling captive forward.

                "Widow?!  No!  What have you done to Roj?"  The petite brunette broke free of her captors and rushed to the side of the dead man laying on the floor.  "NO!!!"

                "I know you," Servalan mused.  "We have met before."  She studied the woman weeping over Blake's corpse.  Small, slender.  Dark hair reaching almost to her shoulders.  She wore pink tights under a pink and lavender paisley tunic.  The leather belt around her waist held an empty knife-sheath.

                "Your hair is longer," Servalan realized.  She snapped her fingers triumphantly.  "You are the slave girl Coser stole.  We'll soon have you chained and collared again.  But ... Coser's slave .... That wasn't Blake, that was a clone.  Only one of the clones!"

                "Clone?" Avon and Vila repeated.

                "You mean he wasn't real?" Vila Restal asked hopefully.  "Blake's not dead?"

                "He was real.  He was human," Rashel declared angrily, her face awash in tears.

                "I didn't kill Blake," Avon muttered, then repeated, louder, "I didn't kill Blake?"

                "You?  You killed Roj?"  Rashel threw herself furiously onto Avon.

                Reluctantly, Servalan ordered her men to separate the pair.  She needed them both alive for questioning.

**~*~*~**

                Two Federation soldiers dragged Vila into the sickbay's convalescent dormitory on Commissioner Sleer's ship.

                "On your knees, Delta," the Gamma corporal ordered as he forced Vila down.  "Show some respect for your betters."

                "Yes, sir," Vila muttered as they chained his handcuffs to a bedpost.  As soon as they left, Vila shifted to a sitting position and looked around.  The woman who had claimed to be Blake's widow sat across the floor from him, also chained to a bedpost and half-sprawled on the floor.  A red handprint decorated her left cheek.  Dayna Mellanby  sat atop the bed next to her, one arm chained to the bedpost.  Lying on the bed next to him, Vila saw Del Tarrant's too-still body smothered in bandages, tubes, and monitor wires.

                "Are you all right, Vila?" Dayna asked anxiously.  She was a pretty, dark-skinned girl.

                "I think so," the thief replied.  Although only in his thirties, his brown hair was already thinning.  "I'm not hurt -- just very much confused."

                "This is Rashel," Dayna introduced.  "Rashel Blake, the local underground leader's wife.  On the other side of Tarrant -- you probably can't see him from there -- is Deva, his assistant.  Apparently, her husband was cloned from the real Roj Blake."

                "The original Roj Blake," Rashel corrected.  "Roj was as real and as human as anyone else.  More human than Servalan!"

                "Sorry," Dayna murmurred.

                "I'm sorry about your husband," Vila said earnestly.  "I didn't mean to sound pleased at his death.  I was just relieve to learn it wasn't my Blake."

                "I understand," Rashel said quietly.

                "Well, I don't," Vila confessed.  "Understand, I mean.  Please, Mrs. Blake, could you explain some of this?  Any of it?"

                "A man named Coser invented a weapon, then stole it.  He -- "

                "He stole his own weapon?"  Vila interrupted, professional curiosity replacing his manners.

                "Yes.  I was a slave; I cleaned the laboratories.  He 'freed' me and took me along, to cook and clean for him ... and other duties.  Servalan had a clone of Blake made -- my Roj.  She knew Coser would never tell her about Imipak -- that was his weapon -- but she hoped he'd tell Blake.  Only Roj wouldn't give it to her once he had it; he said it was too dangerous.  If only we still had it.  I'd kill the bitch without a second's hesitation or regret."

                "What happened to Imipak?"  Dayna was the daughter and student of weapons designer Hal Mellanby; now her professional curiosity was whetted.

                "It was destroyed when our ship crashed," Rashel answered.  "We met your Blake about a year ago, getting to know him so Roj could impersonate him successfully.  Blake said Avon was his friend, his best friend.  How could Avon shoot him?"

                Rashel broke down into tears, but chained to their beds, the others were unable to reach out and comfort her.

**~*~*~**

                "Why did you shoot him?" Servalan asked.

                "Does it matter?" Avon countered.

                "Possibly."

                "In that case, I shan't tell you.  Of all the people in the universe I am unwilling to help, your name is at the top of the list ... Commissioner Sleer."  Avon used her alias in deference to the presence of the guards and the surgeon.

                Servalan turned to the guards.  "Chain him.  Then leave us."

                "The prisoner really isn't up to intensive interrogation," the surgeon protested.

                "Do you command this vessel?" she asked imperiously.  "Out!"

                "You forget," Avon chided after the guards and doctor had left, "that you are now a civilian official, not the fleet's supreme commander."

                Servalan merely smiled.  She had once been Supreme Commander of the Federation's Starfleet.  She had once been President of the Federation.  She intended to regain both positions.  "You could be useful to me, Avon.  I could restore to you all you've lost:  comfort, wealth, position, prestige.  All yours again ... if you work with me."

                "I suspect you'd prefer me to work with you the way I was on Domo -- a slave kneeling at your feet."

                "Perhaps you'd prefer it if I knelt at your feet?"  Her tone made it sound an offer rather than a query.

                "I'd prefer you lying dead at my feet."

                "Like Blake?" Servalan asked.  "Why did you kill him?  Did you know he was an imposter?  Or did you deliberately try to kill your colleague, your friend, your captain, your ... lord and master?"

                "No one's my master," Avon snapped.  "Not Blake, and not you either, Servalan."

                "Me thinks you doth protest too much," Servalan taunted, misquoting one of the forbidden books.  There had been rumors about Blake and Avon, rumors that their relationship was more than friendship.   She had never given much credence to them, before now.  She ran a hand down his sleeve, feeling the muscle beneath the strait-jacket.  "Surely you're not overfond of this garment?  Your skin is soft beneath it, Avon, as an Alpha's skin should be.  Not hardened by rough labor like a Gamma's or a Delta's.  Have you been in space so long that you've forgotten what it is to be an Alpha on Earth?"

                "No," Avon confessed quietly, remembering.  Her words reminded him of something else.  "What will you do with the others?"

                "The slave girl will be flogged and sent to the thorium mines or the canna fields.  Perhaps I'll have Vila join her.  After all, there's so little difference between a Delta and a slave.  My father used to knife the table Deltas for poor service," she reminisced.  "Or perhaps you'd prefer him assigned to you?"

                "Vila's too insolent to make a decent slave," Avon stated. 

                "Oh, but a neurowhip can work wonders with behavior problems.  Perhaps you'll have an opportunity to find out for yourself," Servalan threatened him casually.  "As for Mellanby's daughter, she'd make an excellent mutoid."

                "And Tarrant?" Avon inquired.  His voice was light, his tone bland, as though they were discussing the weather rather than the torture and destruction of his shipmates.

                "He may not live long enough to be executed," Servalan said.

                Avon thought he detected a twinge of regret in her voice, but he said nothing.

                Servalan changed the subject.  "The look on your face when you realized Soolin was the one who had shot you I shall never forget.  Absolutely priceless."

                "Priceless?" Avon repeated.  "I should have said a quarter-million price tag.  You've piqued my curiosity, Servalan.  Just how did you manage all this?"

                "Intelligence sources indicated Blake might be on Gauda Prime.  Soolin provided enough hints and misinformation for you to infer Blake's whereabouts.  It seems she preferred being a wealthy woman to being a hunted member of an outlaw revolutionary bad.  She had few political sentiments or ambitions."

                "But she did have financial ambitions," Avon finished for her.  "So you planned to capture us and Blake all in one fell swoop?"

                Servalan nodded.  "It was to have been the move that restored me to the presidency.  But I can still accomplish that, Avon.  With you at my side, there's nothing I can't do.  Orac will make us unstoppable.  The rest of the universe --"

                Avon laughed.  "I wondered when you'd get 'round to Orac.  You don't have it, and I have no intention of telling you where it is."

                "The Federation has many methods of persuasion," Servalan reminded him.  "Some of which you've tasted before.  Of course, once ... persuaded, you'd be of little use or interest to me.  I prefer you whole."

                "I have a great many faults, Servalan, but betrayal is not one of them.  I am not Soolin."

                "I could spare your companions, if you preferred," Servalan offered.  "I can afford to be magnanimous.  Tarrant could have his commission restored, for example."  A half-smile crossed her lips as she remembered her time with Tarrant on the planet Virn.  "I could arrange something for the others.  Details, Avon, petty details.  With you and Orac working for me, I don't have to settle for the presidency.  I could be galactic empress.  And you," she caressed his cheek gently, "you could be anything you wanted to be.  Imperial consort, perhaps."

                "I wouldn't live ten minutes past the time I ceased to amuse you, or once you found me no longer useful," Avon scoffed.

                "Think of it as incentive to remain useful."  Servalan went to the door and called for the guards.

**~*~*~**

                The door slid open.  Servalan swept imperiously into the sickbay, followed by two guards half-pushing, half-dragging Avon.  "Chain him to the far bed," she ordered.

                Dayna merely glared as they walked past her.  She'd already tested her far the chains would allow her to move.  It was impossible to reach Servalan.  She decided to preserve her dignity (and her strength) and not bother with a futile attempt.

                Accustomed to a lifetime of servitude and submission, Rashel had scurried to her knees the minute she heard footsteps at the door.  But Vila was freeborn, and thought like a freeman.   A guard's boot reminded him of his "proper" position.

                "Didn't I tell you to kneel, Delta?" the corporal asked as he kicked him.

                "Why, Vila," Servalan inquired in saccharine tones, "are you disobeying my soldiers?"

                "Who, me?"  Vila feigned innocence, then muttered, "Wouldn't think of it."

                Avon sat on the bed across from Vila, next to the one to which Rashel was chained.  The other guard fastened a half-meter chain from the bedpost to the manacle around Avon's left ankle.

                "I trust you're comfortable?" Servalan asked.

                "Aren't you going to tuck me in?" Avon asked sardonically.

                Servalan laughed as she and the guards left the room.

                Rashel turned as much as the chain and handcuffs would permit her, and told Avon (in no uncertain terms) what she thought of him, his education, her opinion of his parents' marital status at the time of his conception and birth, his personal hygiene, his bedroom habits, etc.  Many of the words she used were new to Dayna.  Even Vila, raised in the rough Delta warrens, was surprised by the strength and size of her vocabulary.

                When she had finished, Avon merely agreed quietly, "You're probably right."

                "I would kill you if I could," Rashel added.

                "You'd be well within your rights if you did," Avon said in a low, fatigued voice.  "I really ought to apologize for killing your husband, but in the first place, it wouldn't do any good.  And in the second place, I doubt you'd accept it."

                "You're right.  I wouldn't.  Words won't bring my Roj back, murderer."

                "I know.  It was ... a mistake."

                "A mistake?  A mistake!" Rashel shrieked, then continued in her earlier vein.  She gave up her tirade only when she was forced to stop for breath, and then she cried until she ran out of tears.

                Some time later, after a long and uncomfortable silence, Avon asked, "How's Tarrant?"

                Dayna looked up, startled by the question.  "I'm not sure.  Bad, I think.  He's either sedated or unconscious.  Neither he nor Deva is awake yet."

                "Damned fool stunt he pulled, risking his life for mine," Avon said.

                "Yes," Dayna agreed maliciously.

                The silence resumed for several minutes.  After a bit, Dayna worked up the nerve to ask, "Avon?  What is she going to do to us?"

                "Attempt to interrogate us, then kill us once she's through.  I expect her methods of execution will be rather unpleasant."  Avon made no effort to pretty up his words.  "She wants any information she can get, but mostly she wants Orac.  She'll likely offer to spare your life in return for cooperation -- Soolin's sort of cooperation.  And likely Soolin's reward, as well.  I wouldn't trust her."

                "No more than I would trust you," Rashel snapped.

                "Just what did she offer you?" Vila asked.  "Going to sell us out to save your own neck?"

                "This isn't Malodaar, Vila."

                Dayna looked up, startled by the _non sequitar_.  What did that have to do with the price of peanuts on Procyon IX?

                "You shot Blake -- the wrong Blake --because you suspected him of betrayal," Vila reminded Avon unnecessarily.  His face paled a trifle at the memory of the shuttle above Malodaar.  "Did you suspect it because the thought was in your own twisted mind?"

                "You did spend an awfully long time with her, Avon," Dayna remarked.  "Just what did you and Servalan talk about all that time?"

                "I wasn't with Servalan the whole time," Avon explained.  "Her medical staff was giving me a very thorough examination."  
                Dayna looked at the bulge the bandages made under the strait-jacket.  "Your wounds aren't all that serious.

                After a moment's silence, Avon confessed, "It was a psychiatric examination."

                The convalescent dormitory grew quiet again, except for the occasional rattling of chains.

**~*~*~**

                "Here are the medical reports you requested, Commissioner," the ship's chief medical officer said as he handed Servalan the files.

                She flipped through the reports  as she spoke.  "How serious is Avon's condition?"

                "His physical condition is fairly good.  It's a clean burn; he'll recover easily."

                "And his mental condition?" Servalan asked.

                "Borderline schizophrenia and mild post-traumatic stress disorder.  Only just this side of the border, too.  Apparently, the shock of killing the Blake-clone and realizing he'd just tried to kill his friend and leader snapped him back toward sanity.  With therapy and medication, he could be completely cured.  Or he's still close enough to the edge, we could drive him to total insanity if you preferred," the CMO offered.

                Servalan smiled.  Even in the Starfleet Medical Corps, competent doctors who were willing to put their duty to the Federation ahead of their silly professional ethics were rare.  This one would have to be observed and marked for possible promotion.

                "Cure him," Servalan ordered.  "He'll be of more use to me sane.  An amusing conceit, isn't it, the way he's convinced I'm the late president.  Other than the fact we both have black hair, I can't see the slightest resemblance."

                "Unfortunately, lie detectors can't differentiate between what is true and what the subject believes to be true," the CMO apologized.  "I never had the pleasure of meeting President Servalan, so I wouldn't know," he continued, lying through his teeth.  "Most likely, within his mind any powerful female whom he regards as an enemy is associated with Servalan."

                Servalan continued skimming through the files, noting with amusement that Restal, V. was the only patient-prisoner to be completely unscathed.  "How very like him," she murmured.

                "By the way, one of the female prisoners is pregnant.  I assume you'll want an abortion?"

                "Which one?" Servalan asked sharply.

                "The older one."  The CMO glanced at the reports to confirm the name.  "Rashel Blake."

                "If her child was conceived by a clone made from Blake's DNA pattern, then genetically that child would be Roj Blake's, wouldn't it?" Servalan asked.

                "From a purely biological point of view, yes.  Genetically, there would be no difference between Blake and his clone.  Therefore, there would be no biological difference between Roj Blake's actual offspring and any offspring sired by his clone," the CMO explained.

                "Roj Blake's offspring," Servalan repeated under her breath.

                "Shall I schedule the abortion for tomorrow?" he asked.

                "No, don't abort."

                "The drugs and punishments used during a standard interrogation session -- let alone a prolonged series of interrogations -- will either induce a miscarriage or result in a deformed baby," the CMO warned.

                "We'll begin with just questioning," the commissioner decreed.  "Nothing else yet.  How far along is she?  Does she know?"

                "About six weeks, approximately.  As for knowing, I don't think so.  She didn't say anything, and I only just now got the test results back."

                "Don't inform her," Servalan ordered.  She gathered up the reports and left the CMO's office without listening to his "yes, ma'am."   She headed to her own office to think.

                "Blake's child, Blake's heir.  Dangerous.  The rebellion could become a _jihad_ , waged in Blake's memory on behalf of his son.  Blake's widow and orphan son -- dangerous symbols.  People would die for such symbols.  They cannot be permitted to live, to establish a rival dynasty to my own."

                Servalan smiled.  When she was nine, she had announced her intention to eventually become Empress of the Universe.  Her mother had laughed and said there wasn't any such office, and that she would have to settle for being President of the Federation.  Well, she'd been president -- and would again -- and now an imperial throne lay within her grasp ... once she had ORAC.

                "With Avon as my consort and counselor, and Tarrant ....  He could be my heir."  Servalan smiled again.  It would be easy for a sophisticated, experienced woman like herself to bind Tarrant to her, and Del was a handsome boy.  And unlike Avon, Tarrant would make an excellent lapdog.  That was one feat Avon could never accomplish.  Perhaps that was why she desired him so.

                "Tarrant is greedy, ambitious, intelligent.  It would be easy to train him as my heir.  As for Blake's heir --"  Servalan stopped as a new thought struck her.  "Blake's heir as my heir apparent -- the perfect puppet.  Every rebel sympathizer in the galaxy would support a regime organized in his name.  There's no reason I couldn't take over the Federation, instead of taking back the Federation and then destroying the rebellion.  As regent, I would have unlimited power.  I could train the child in my own image from birth to ensure he was a suitable heir.  And if he failed the training, accidents can always be arranged."  Smiling a third time, Servalan decided to let Rashel's child live.  The only difficulty with the scheme, she regretted, was that she would have to remain Sleer and abandon her true identity.

**~*~*~**

                And so a routine developed.  Deva, Tarrant, and Avon were removed from the dormitory regularly for therapy and treatment.  Deva and Tarrant were interrogated under drugs; Avon was merely questioned.  Dayna and Vila were questioned under the Federation's traditional methods:  drugs, deprivation of sleep and food, and physical pain.  Vila's interrogations soon ended when he failed to produce any interesting answers.  Instead, he was assigned to menial chores:  scrubbing the decks, shining officers' boots, cleaning Sleer's cabin and office, and waiting on her hand and foot.  Rashel was questioned, but not really interrogated, slapped occasionally, but never beaten.  And while the others were fed twice a day, unless their interrogation schedule called for fasting, her medical examinations and questioning sessions were often scheduled at mid-day, so she was frequently given lunch once they were done.  The ship remained in orbit over Gauda Prime as Sleer's men hunted for Orac. 

                And so things continued.  Any prisoner not being interrogated was chained to his/her bed.  Sometimes more than one prisoner was out of the dormitory, but they were only removed one at a time, under heavy guard.  Hours became days; the days became a week.

**~*~*~**

                Vila was carryinging a tray to Servalan when the knock came at her office.  Before he could set down the tray and hobble over to open it, before she could give permission, the door slid open.  A Federation Starfleet lieutenant stood there.  Orac was in his hands.

                "Oh, no."  Vila dropped the tray.

                "We've found it, Commissioner, we've found it," the lieutenant announced proudly.

                Servalan observed Vila's reaction.  "So you have.  Bring it here."  She pointed to a blank spot on her desk where Vila had been about to set down her lunch tray.  "Well done, well done indeed."  She pushed the intercom button and called the ship's commander.  "This is Commissioner Sleer.  Break orbit immediately and set a course for Earth."

                "Yes, Commissioner."

                "Lieutenant."  She addressed the young officer.

                "Yes, Commissioner," he replied, expecting an award or a commendation.

                "If you ever enter my chambers without permission again, I'll have you demoted so low it'll take you a decade to work your way back up to private."

                "Yes, Commissioner."

                "So, Vila, this is Orac.  How do I work it?" Servalan asked after the red-faced lieutenant had left.

                "I don't know, honest I don't," Vila lied as he knelt on the floor wiping up the mess.  "They wouldn't trust me with him."

                "Him?  It is a computer, Vila, only a machine.  But what a machine," she murmured in delighted approval.

 

**~*~*~**


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vila does what he does best: pick locks. Can Avon and his crew escape Servalan's clutches?

               

* * *

 

                "Servalan's got Orac," Vila said as soon as the guard had finished chaining him back to the bedpost.  He scooted off his knees into a half-sitting, half-sprawling position.

                "So that's why she sent for Avon," Dayna said.

                "That's not all," Vila added.  "We've left Gauda Prime.  We're headed for Earth."

                "Earth?  But she's been questioning me about the underground on GP and our ties to other resistance groups.  Is this computer that important to her?" Rashel asked.

                "As much as I hate to admit it, Orac is probably the most sophisticated computer in the galaxy," Vila said.  "Just ask him, he'll tell you himself.  He can control other computers.  With Orac and Avon to help her, Servalan could do almost anything."

                "As if things weren't bad enough," Rashel sighed.

                "What do you mean?" Vila asked.  He thought things were already pretty bad, but she seemed to mean something specific.

                "I'm late -- nearly two months late."

                "Late?  What's late?"

                "My, uh, my ... ."  Dropping her voice, Rashel started to stutter out an answer, but Dayna interrupted and told Vila in plain language just what was late."

                "Oh.  Does that mean what I think it does?"

                "It might.  It would explain why my interrogation's been so gentle compared to everyone else's.  But if I am pr-pregnant, why hasn't she killed me?"  Rashel just barely managed to hold back her tears.

                "Maybe she just wants to get all the information she can out of you first," Dayna offered.

                "But she hasn't tortured me or drugged me," Rashel pointed out.  "She hasn't done anything that could hurt the baby -- if I am pregnant."

                "Blake's son would be one helluva pawn," Vila reasoned.

                "Son?  It might be a daughter," Dayna said.

                "No."  Vila shook his head.  "Roj Blake would sire sons."

                "Sexist," Dayna muttered.

**~*~*~**

                The routine settled down again.  Avon spent most of his time in therapy, where he was an uncooperative patient, or in Servalan's quarters.  She always sent Vila away when Avon came, so Vila and the others had no way of telling what was happening there.  Avon, of course, refused to talk about it.  Vila's duty as Servalan's scullion increased.  He suspected that she didn't plan to bother with a trial for him and he'd be unofficially enslaved when they returned to Earth.  Dayna and Rashel's interrogations decreased.  The next few days were fairly quiet ... until Deva died.

**~*~*~**

                The lights on the diagnostic screen went black.  Sirens roared, hissed, and whistled.  Deva's body collapsed and lay still.  After several long minutes, a guard came in, examined the body, and called for a doctor.

                Vila was waiting on Servalan at the time, but the others told him about it when he got back.  Vila stared up at the empty bed, or tried to.  It was difficult to see from his angle.  He glanced up at Tarrant's bed with its brightly lit diagnostic screens.  "Avon, those screens are computer run, aren't they?"

                "What?"  The question had startled him.  He'd grown used to his fellow prisoners' ostracism. 

                "I said, are those screens run by computer?" Vila repeated.

                "Yes, of course.  The entire ship is."

                "Could you disrupt them?  Rig them so it looked like Tarrant died?"

                "Wouldn't it be easier just to kill Tarrant?" Avon asked dryly.

                "Answer the question," Vila demanded.

                "Yes.  If I weren't wearing this -- stylish garment," Avon said.

                "If we could get you out of that strait-jacket, though, and you messed up the computer that controls the diagnostic screens, that would bring the guards in to investigate, wouldn't it?  And we could jump him, grab his keys and his gun.  We could escape," Vila suggested, beginning to get excited by his own plan.

                "You forget I am chained to the bed," Avon pointed out.  "I wouldn't be able to reach Tarrant, even if I did get this jacket off."

                "But if we could handle the jacket and the chains, you could manage the computer?" Vila asked.

                "Yes, of course," Avon said in an insulted tone.  Vila dared doubt his cybernetic proficiency?  "But so many ifs ....  If it were possible, we would have already done it."

                "Not necessarily," Vila countered.

                " Not necessarily?" half the people in the room repeated.

                "Vila, do you mean to sit there and tell me you could have escaped at any time and we've just been staying to keep Servalan company?" Dayna complained.

                "No.  Er, not exactly.  I think I can get out of the cuffs.  But it'll hurt -- that's why I haven't tried yet.  Besides, we didn't have any way to get off the ship before."

                "And we do now?" Tarrant muttered.

                "Servalan's got a private boat -- a pinnacle -- all stocked up, ready to go.  It's --"

                "Pinnace, Vila," Tarrant interrupted.

                "Huh?"

                "It's called a pinnace," the space academy graduate corrected.

                "Well, whatever you call it, it's big enough to hold the lot of us.  And clean.  I just scrubbed the bloody thing yesterday."

                "It's worth a try, I suppose," Avon said.  "After all, if we fail, maybe Servalan will put us out of our misery."

                "If Avon is responsible for our successful escape, then you're not likely to let me kill him?" Rashel pointed out.

                "Er, it would be bad manners," Vila hedged.

                "Damn."

                "After we've escaped, Rashel, I will settle my debt with you," Avon promised.

                "There's only one way to settle a blood-debt," Rashel warned.

                Avon gave her no answer.

                       

**~*~*~**

                "Ugh.  What's that on your hand?" the guard asked he handcuffed Vila.

                "I, uh, spilled something as I was serving the commissioner's dinner," Vila explained hastily.  "She slapped me for it good and proper."

                The guard ignored Vila's complaint of Sleer's disciplinary action and shoved him roughly back toward the convalescent dormitory.  Vila knelt without being told and stayed meekly still as his cuffs were chained to the bed.

                Vila waited until the guard's footsteps died away, then muttered, "Well, here goes nothing."  He twisted and turned, contorted and flexed, swore and folded his hand into itself as small as he could.  For ten minutes Vila struggled with the cuffs, sweat and blood lubricating his hands as much as the margarine.  Finally, he exhaled, and slid out of the cuffs, leaving them chained to the bedpost behind him.

                Still in leg-irons, he hobbled over to Avon's bed and pulled a knife out from under his shirt.  Silently, he cut the restraints on Avon's strait-jacket.  It was tough material.  It took a while to cut.

                "Waste of a good knife," Rashel muttered as Vila cut Avon free.

                "Undo my chain, then free the others," Avon ordered.

                "Whose plan is this, yours or mine?" Vila demanded indignantly.

                Avon didn't deign to reply as Vila set about picking the lock on Avon's manacles with the knife tip.  The thief struggled for several minutes, nicking himself a few times.

                "You've cut yourself," Avon noted.

                "These?  Just nicks.  Nothing serious," Vila said.

                Avon's right eyebrow rose.  Normally Vila was a coward, complaining about every least thing.  But when he was concentrating on a lock, he was a different man altogether.  "I meant your wrists."

                "Oh.  Nothing we can do about them now."

                "We're in a sickbay," Avon reminded him.  "There must be some sort of bandages in here."

                "Sickbay.  Of course!"  Vila jumped up and hurried (as quickly as his leg-irons would permit him)to a locked medical cabinet on the wall.  Breaking the cabinet's glass door open with the knife hilt, he opened and looked for ...  "Medical instruments!" Vila exclaimed gleefully.

                Grabbing a handful of the delicate precision instruments, Vila returned to Avon and had the lock undone in a few minutes.

                "Get the others," Avon ordered.  "I'll start working on the computer."

                "Not yet," Vila protested.  "These aren't my usual working tools.  It'll take a bit.  Don't start yet."

                Avon nodded.  He walked about, stretching his stiff arms and legs, then went over to examine the diagnostic screen.  Vila set to work on Rashel's fetters.

                "Are you ready yet?" Avon asked Vila impatiently a few a few minutes later.  "I think I've got this thing figured out."

                "Almost," Vila stalled, as he clicked open the lock on Dayna's chain.  "Let me just get my leg-irons and I'm done."

                "I'm starting now.  You'd better be done by the time this goes off."

                "You think you've got this figured?  What if you make a mistake?" Tarrant asked.  "I'm still hooked up to this thing."

                "We'll have to get you out of the bed ... but not yet.  Not until I say.  Are you able to walk?" Avon asked brusquely, almost as an afterthought.

                "I don't know," Tarrant answered, suddenly feeling more than a little nervous about this escape attempt and the threat it presented to his personal safety.

                "Dayna, Rashel, be ready to help him.  Carry him if necessary," Avon said.

                Avon applied some of Vila's confiscated medical instruments to the screen's circuitry.  "Vila, stand by the door and hit whomever comes in."

                "Me?"

                "Good point.  Dayna, you take the door.  Vila, come over here and help Tarrant out of bed.  All right, lift him out of bed ... now.  It's going to sound like November Fifth in a few seconds," Avon prophesied.

                For a long moment nothing happened, and Avon started to worry.  Then the screen went blank and the alarms went off.  Rashel and Vila supported Tarrant, trying to help him walk.  Avon joined Dayna at the door.  They waited.

                "What's the matter?" Tarrant complained.  "Don't they care I'm dead?"

                "Apparently not," Avon quipped.  "They do seem to be taking their time."

                "Shh," Dayna whispered.  "They're coming."

                The door slid open, and a guard walked in, unhurried.  Dayna took him down before he had a chance to make a sound.  Swiftly, she slit his throat, then grabbed his weapon.

                "Let's go," Avon said, turning to the right.

                "The pinnace is this way."  Vila pointed to the left.

                "Servalan's cabin is this way," Avon countered.

                "We don't have time for revenge.  Let's get the hell out of here," Vila urged.

                "Orac is in Servalan's cabin.  With it we can disrupt the ship's computers and stop them from looking for us.  Without it they'll catch us before we've gone half a spacial."  Without looking to see if they were following him, Avon led the way off to the right.

                "I hate it when he's right," Vila complained.

 

 

**~*~*~**

                Servalan's cabin had a standard lock.  Picking it was child's play for Vila.  Dayna grabbed a weapon off the vanity table whilst Avon grabbed Orac.

                "Orac, this is Avon.  Kerr Avon.  Verify."

                "I recognized your voice, Avon," the shining box retorted petulantly.

                "Confirm identity by voiceprint," Avon ordered.

                "Confirmed."

                "Activate code J-Zed- 9-9-Alpha.  Cooperate."

                "Code J-Zed- 9-9-Alpha activated.  What do you want?" it demanded.

                "You mean you programmed Orac not to cooperate with Servalan?" Vila asked.

                "Of course."

                "You sly devil," Vila said admiringly.

                "Save the compliments for later.  Which way to the pinnace?" 

                "C'mon."  Vila gestured, leading the way.

                Avon spoke quietly to Orac as they walked.  "Orac, I need you to disrupt the ship's sensors and navigation computers.  Now!"

                They reached the pinnace with few difficulties.  (Dayna only had to kill two soldiers.)  Vila picked the lock on the boat with contemptuous ease.

                "All right, all aboard," Vila invited.  The women helped Tarrant in.  Vila placed a hand on Avon's arm to stop him and asked, "Can Orac open the docking bay doors?  Or will there be some way to open the doors from inside this boat?"

                "Yes, I expect so.  Come on."

                "You expect so?  Which is it?  Don't you know?  I don't want to have to open the doors by hand, I'd be sucked out into space," Vila babbled.

                "Shut up and get in the boat.  Orac's getting heavy."

                "Yes, Avon."  Vila started to obey when an alarm went off.

                "That's for us," Avon realized.  "In!"

                They hurried into the pinnace.  Vila shut the door behind them.  On the boat's small flight deck, they found Tarrant slumped in the pilot's chair.  Rashel was at the navigator's station.  The others quickly found seats along the bulkhead.

                "Are you up to this?" Avon asked, a touch of concern in his voice.

                "I can faint later," Tarrant said, surprised that Avon cared, but assuming the computer genius was merely worried about his own safety.  What else could it be with Avon?

                "And probably will," Dayna added as she strapped herself in.

                "Dayna, unstrap your belt and check our weapons capability.  If this is Servalan's personal ship, I'm willing to bet it's armed.  Tarrant, get us out of where.  The course doesn't matter, just away.  Vila, give Dayna a hand."  Vila barked out orders.  "Orac, shut down the alarm systems and open the bay doors.  Now!"

                The bay doors opened.   The  pinnace wafted out of the cruiser's docking bay and into open space.

                "Maintain jamming their sensors and navigation systems as long as possible, Orac."

                "We shall soon be out of jamming range," Orac informed Avon.

                Avon scowled.  "Dayna, fire at will."

                "Which one's Will?" Vila muttered under his breath.

                Ignoring the thief, Dayna reported, "I already am, Avon.  They're shooting blind; their shots haven't come close."

                "Continue firing.  You might get lucky and hit Servalan."

**~*~*~**

                "Rashel, may I speak with you, please?" Avon asked an hour later, when things were much calmer and Servalan's cruiser had been left far behind them.

                Surprised, she nodded, rose, and followed him aft.

                "Please?" Dayna repeated in a whisper.  "Is Avon feeling well?"

                In the stern of the pinnace was a small cubicle with a bed and a desk -- obviously intended for Servalan's private use.  Avon led Rashel back into the cubicle and handed her a knife, hilt first.

                "I killed your husband.  I regret that.  I was ... not myself at the time," he explained.  "If you wish to avenge him, you would certainly be within your rights."

                "Is that meant to be an apology?" Rashel sneered.

                "No.  I haven't done that yet, have I?"

                "No."

                "I'm not good at apologies.  However ... I am sorry, Rashel."

                "Your 'friends' don't trust you.  They wouldn't stop me if I killed you," Rashel threatened.  "They wouldn't care."

                "I know."

                Rashel felt the edge of the blade.  A drop of blood appeared upon her finger.  She raised the knife and laid it alongside his throat, near but not on the jugular.  Avon looked her straight in the eye without flinching.

                She scratched his neck gently with the knife, barely breaking the skin.  "Roj died quickly.  I don't intend to give you that."

                Avon stood mute.

                Rashel drew the knife down his neck again, deeper this time.  Avon felt the blood trickle down, like ants crawling on his skin.  Rashel raised the knife to cut him a third time, then pulled back.

                "Roj believed in the Rule of Life.  All life was sacred to him -- even yours.  Killing you wouldn't bring him back."

                "No, it wouldn't."

                "That's how he nearly lost his eye.  He was a poor fighter.  He only recently learned the necessity of killing."  Rashel started talking about Roj, his gentle ways and the fight he'd inherited with his progenitor's DNA.  Dropping the knife on the deck, she broke down completely.  Avon held her awkwardly as she cried.

**~*~*~**

                Twenty minutes later, he washed her face and led her back to the flight deck.

                "Avon, this boat is marvelous!" Dayna exclaimed.  "Weapons, food -- it has everything we need."

                "Everything except a course," Tarrant said.  "Where are we going?"

                "You'd better ask the captain that."  Avon looked at Rashel.

                "Captain?  Me?"  Rashel was startled.  So were the others.

                "Why not?  Vila, for all his skills, is not a leader.  Tarrant is a good pilot, but too inexperienced to command.  Dayna has less experience than Tarrant.  I am qualified," he stated modestly, "but I doubt you'd trust me.  You, on the other hand, as Blake's widow and the mother of his child, are the perfect figurehead as leader of the rebellion.  Possibly you are qualified to lead the resistance in fact as well as in name.  At any rate, you are as competent -- or incompetent -- as anyone else aboard.  Why not appoint you captain?"

                "You forget, Avon, the decision isn't yours to make," Dayna reminded him.

                Avon raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

                Rashel looked at her shipmates, noting Tarrant's condition, Dayna's youth.  "If I am captain, my first command will be to have you leave the ship --"

                "Boat," Tarrant corrected automatically.

                "Leave the boat at the first habitable planet we find."

                Avon nodded.  "Thank you."

                "Thank you?" Vila repeated.

                "I expected worse," Avon confessed.

                "Well, you can come with me," Vila offered.

                "Vila, you're not leaving?" Dayna asked.

                "I'm giving up the revolutionary business and going back into theft," Vila announced.

                " 'There are only two ways for a revolutionary to stop being one -- get killed or win'," Rashel quoted.  "Servalan won't let you quit."

                "I'm going back to what I do best:  stealing.  Once I've got enough money, I'm going to buy a starship --"

                "With an all female crew, I assume," Tarrant interrupted.

                "No.  I'm going to look for Kerrill.  Maybe once I've found her, we'll come back.  You can come with me, Avon.  We'd make twice as much with your way with computers.  Once we had enough money to finance our trip, we could go hunting together."

                "Hunting?" Avon asked.

                "You're going looking for Blake, aren't you?" Vila asked knowingly.

                "Blake's dead.  He must be," Tarrant said.

                "Servalan told us months ago Blake was dead," Dayna added.

                "Servalan is hardly a reliable source," Rashel mentioned.

                "Servalan said the man I shot was 'one of the clones.'  Plural," Avon reminded them.

                "You're going to go looking for Blake, aren't you, Avon?" Vila repeated. 

                "Yes."

               


End file.
